


Imagine Knowing Me

by insunshine, sinuous_curve



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We want you," Gabe says, completely serious in only the way Gabe knows how to be, looking at Nate over steepled fingers. "We want you to infiltrate the enemy base camp, learn their secrets, fuck their manservants, and then get the fuck out of Dodge. Can you do that for us, young Nathaniel? The future rides on you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine Knowing Me

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed!

They stop for gas outside Boston.

It's ass o 'clock in the morning and Nate's wiped; even the lure of being able to stretch his legs for a couple minutes isn't enough to get him to roll out of his bunk. They're still four or five hours out from Jersey give or take traffic and, much as he loves the band, being trapped in a bus with Gabe Saporta and the rest of Cobra Academy is enough to drive any man to drink.

"Up, up, up young Nathaniel."

It's very possible that Gabe is standing outside of his bunk. Nate can feel the curtain rustling, and he throws his forearm over his eyes, trying to pretend that he's asleep. Even Gabe, crazy motherfucker that he is wouldn't interrupt the sanctity of a man's sleep.

Except, of course, it's Gabe and Gabe very likely isn't human and he yanks back the curtain with blatant and total disregard to the fact that Nate is tired and, while small, can be intensely violent when roused. "I hate you," he grumbles, batting out an arm at Gabe. "Fuck off."

"But Nate," he says, smiling in this way that is both scary creepy and completely irresistable. "We have coffee."

Nate grumbles something intelligible and shimmies out of his bunk, bare feet hitting the hardwood. It shouldn't be a shock to his system anymore, but they keep their bus fucking freezing, and Nate's only wearing yesterday's boxers.

Gabe raises an eyebrow and smirks as Nate brushes past him and curls up on couch next to Carden. Who, while not as tall as Gabe, is solid and warm and not an asshole who disrespects the sanctity of the closed bus curtain.

"We have something we need to discuss, young Nathaniel," Gabe says, clasping his hands behind his back. "It is of the most vital importance for Cobra Academy to successfully navigate the mindfield that is Bamboozle and emerge victorious."

"The mindfield that is Bamboozle," Nate says, and even though Sisky's passed him a ceramic mug of something that smells vaguely like hazelnut, he's still not a hundred percent lucid. "Are there grenades and bombs? I don't remember enlisting, man." Beside him Carden snorts, but he doesn't move his arm, and Nate's grateful for the pillow.

"You make jokes, but I am deadly serious," Gabe says, eyes narrowing. "I have been to this war before."

Nate rolls his eyes. It's true; he knows that back in day, Gabe had come to Bamboozle with old band, Midtown Arms. They hadn't played anything within spitting distance of the mainstages, no, they were off in the no man's land near the entrance, but it had happened, they had been there The moral of the story is that Gabe has done this. "Forgive me," Nate mumbles, draining half the mug. "Please continue."

"We want you," Gabe says, completely serious in only the way Gabe knows how to be, looking at Nate over steepled fingers. "We want you to infiltrate the enemy base camp, learn their secrets, fuck their wenches -- " he pauses himself again, and then looks down at Nate curiously. "Or their manservants, and then get the fuck out of Dodge. Can you do that for us, young Nathaniel? The future rides on you."

Nate stares a Gabe, blinks, and shifts his gaze to Carden. "He's fucking with me, right?"

Carden shrugs. "You lived in his basement, dude, not me. I still can't fucking tell."

Nate closes his eyes and counts to five; when he opens them Gabe is still looking at him expectantly and completely seriously. "Okay." Nate swallows down the rest of his coffee and sets the mug aside. "Who exactly is the enemy camp and why am I infiltrating them?"

**

Nate's setting off across the parking lot which seems longer and larger than they'd told him it was. He has a folding table under one arm (where the brand new cd's will go, in the premiere spot in front of their booth -- Viva la Santi is one of the oddest records he's ever heard in his life, but it's definitely out there, and if anyone can make music like it sell, it would be Gabe

Cobra Academy's landed the main stage on Sunday, no mean feat for any band, and, as the icing on the cake, they drew one of the coveted even slots right before the headliner. It's a big fucking deal and Nate's a little nervous, even though he's not going to be anywhere near the stage. Butcher keeps trying to lure him into being teching again, but Nate's just not interested. He loves to play, just not with anyone watching.

Nate hums as he starts setting up the booth. There aren't any thirteen year olds around yet, not before the park "officially" opens for the day, and Nate doesn't mind them, mostly, they seem like nice kids, except for how they try to sleep with him to get to Gabe, and Nate likes sex, he likes sex a lot, but not like that.

God, he hasn't gotten laid in a while.

It's the one downside of living on a tour bus ten months out of the year. Not that he lacks offers, no, it's just that they tend to be, "I'll blow you if you get me back to meet Gabe/Bill/Butcher/Ryland/Sisky/Vicky." Nate's not a prude, but it feels a little to close to musical prostitution.

And sex, while awesome, is not as good as cold, hard cash. Not that Nate would accept it, Jesus. There is a reason he doesn't wake up before ten most mornings.

Setting up right next to him is this skinny kid with hair falling into his eyes, tight jeans and chucks in place, wearing a Fall Out Disco tee shirt plastered against his chest. "Hi," he says, when he catches Nate looking. The manservant enemy, awesome. Nate ... could do worse.

Nate could do a lot worse; he has done a lot worse.

The kid, and yes, Nate's aware that they're probably fairly close to the same age, but he can't help it, has dark hair falling his eyes and glasses with red frames sliding down on the end of nose. His clothes, Fall Out Disco shirt and girl jeans, are fucking painted onto his body. It's a nice body. Nate swallows and smiles, "Hey."

"He speaks," the kid says, and his voice is a lot deeper than Nate had expected. "I'm Brendon," he's reaching across the divide then, sticking his hand out. He's got bracelets up and down his wrists, and a demented armadillo on his forearm.

Nate's trying really hard not to stare.

"Nate," he says and when their palms touch, it's hard to remember that this kid, Brendon, is a minion of the enemy and a devotee of the devil incarnate, Pete Wentz. "Lemme guess." Nate pushes a box of tee shirts back behind the table with his foot. "You're Fall Out Disco's merch kid?"

Brendon nods, and then he keeps nodding, and oh hey wait, he's still holding Nate's hand, and if this were a romantic comedy, they would laugh and kiss or something equally stupid, and Nate blinks, because right, they don't make commercially popular gay romantic comedies.

"You must be Cobra Academy's," Brendon says with a wry smile and Nate has to chuckle at that. The rivalry between Gabe and Pete is more than slightly epic in their little corner of the musical world, filled with he-said-he-said and the mysterious band break up of Midtown Arms that's the one thing neither of them will talk about. "You know, Pete told me I'm supposed to think of you as my sworn enemy. Denzien of Beelzebub, I think was his exact phrasing."

"You're just The Enemy at our camp." Nate shrugs and Brendon fucking beams.

"William Miller," he says, "Awesome."

Nate blinks again, and he must look like an own or something. Brendon grins, a little slower than before, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Almost Famous, you know?" Nate nods, because he does.

"Hey, Bren!" A voice cuts through the moment and Nate drops his hand, flashing Brendon a brief smile before turnings back to the boxes he has to get open and arranged before the five hundred strong crowds descend on the parking lot. Another kid come comes shuffling up and Nate, who isn't easily star struck, has to keep himself from staring. Enemy or not, in plaid pants and a vest, it's still fucking Ryan Ross.

Brendon snuggles right up next to him, hand wrapping around his arm, face pressed close to nuzzle against his neck, and okay, objectively speaking, Nate just met him and this kid is The Enemy, but he can't help being a little jealous. If only because he's not getting laid; he'd had a feeling Gabe's plan wasn't fullproof.

"Making friends?" Ryan says flatly and Brendon chuckles, poking a finger into his side.

"I'm a friendly guy, Ryan, it's in my blood. We're going to be sitting next to each other for the better part of the next seventy-two hours." Nate smiles to himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from throwing out a satisfying, but very childish so there.

"Right." Ryan shrugs Brendon off. "Pete's looking for you. He says the techs are incompetent."

Nate winces, because not so long ago, he was a tech. Plus, Gabe has story after story about how demanding Pete is, how hard he is to work with, how he's mean. Gabe may be a crazy motherfucker, but at least he's never been a dick to Nate. Not. Not on purpose, anyway; Gabe's asshole moments usually come from him not thinking before he says or does truly stupid shit, and while that may happen a lot, he's never intentionally cruel.

Brendon rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "That's what Pete gets for letting the Alexes sweet talk him into coming on tour. Tell him I need like, twenty minutes to get set up here and then I need to someone to watch the booth and make sure no one jacks our merch."

"I'll do it," Nate says without thinking, surprising even himself.

Brendon blinks at him, and Ryan does too, but at least Brendon is smiling at him. "You are not nearly as bad as I'd been led to believe, Nate," he says and then. Well. And then he winks.

Nate dies a little on the inside. Minion of the devil, his ass.

**

Nate's got the boxes of shirts opened and arranged for easy grabbing purposes when Sisky wanders up, hair exploding out from underneath a skull cap because, even though it's May, it's turning fucking cold, and a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.

"Did we get famous and no one told me?" Nate teases, setting a stack of Viva la Santi records out on the table.

"Shut the fuck up, Navarro," Sisky says, but he pushes his glasses up, and shimmies behind the table, starting to pull out the Viva La Santi promos. There are a lot of sepia toned pictures of Gabe and Bill squaring off in an alleyway, splashes of color bursting in through the tops of the corners.

"Who do you think would win?" Nate asks, taping a poster to the edge of the table with the time of the band's signing scribbled in black sharpie in the corner. "Like, in a battle to the death between Gabe and Bill, who would walk away victorious?"

Sisky pulls off his sunglasses and studies the picture. "Gabe's heavier, but will's vicious."

Nate rolls his eyes. "They're only fighting when they're not fucking, man," he says, and he's not jealous, he's really not, it's just kind of hard living in a confined space with two of his closest friends and actually knowing what they sound like when they have sex. With each other.

Sisky laughs and chucks the poster back into the box. "Harder, Billvy, harder."

Nate throws a roll of duct tape at him. Jesus, he's traumatized enough from their marathon, we-have-twelve-hours-till-the-next-venue, bunk fucking sessions without having to relive them. "Don't have soundcheck to prep for or something that doesn't involve scarring me for life?"

"Hoodwink doesn't start for like four hours man and we're up last. All I have is time to kill annoying you." Sisky shrugs.

"I love you so much, man," Nate says, and Sisky grins. When everything's set up, and the newest faction of the merch booth is shiny and in the front and shiny, Nate leans back, actually sweaty, wiping his brow. "C'mon, Nasty Nate," he says, "I'll buy you lunch. Before your actual like, slave labor begins."

**

By the time the gates open for Hoodwink, the temperature's gone from brisk to cool to colder than a fucking witch's tit and Nate's broken down and yanked on one of the merch hoodies over his own.

"You're paying for that," Bill says, shivering in his plaid button down and nothing else.

"It's for my own survival," Nate yells as he retreats toward the bus until CA has to be on. Behind his own table, which is layered with pink (pale pink) and black hoodies with 'stay gold' written across the chest, Brendon snorts and smiles.

He's only wearing a tee shirt too, blue, etched with a skeleton on the chest, and Nate's eyes practically bug out of his head, because what? "Seriously," he whispers, fingers shaking, because christ, it does not get this cold in fucking Georgia. "Aren't you freezing?"

Brendon shrugs and spreads out his arms. "I am impervious to the elements." Nate rolls his eyes and pulls up his hoods.

"Freak of nature," he mutters and Brendon grins that same blinding grin and bends down. He comes back up with a silver thermos.

"I have coffee, if you want some."

Nate blinks, and maybe this is exactly what Gabe had in mind. Maybe he's being punked or something. That would be just like Gabe, setting him on this wild goose chase, and then, you know, getting him invested, and then snatching it away. God, maybe he is an evil criminal mastermind.

"It's not poisoned or anything is it?" Nate asks and Brendon stares.

"Well, I mean, it's from seven eleven, so take from that what you will, but there's not, like, surprise cyanide or anything." Nate casts a quick glance to the darkening sky, just to cover all his bases, and promises himself that if Gabe's machinations get him killed, he will come back as a poltergeist and prevent him from ever getting laid ever again.

"Yes, I would like some, please."

Brendon grins, and pats the bench beside him. "I'll only share if you come over here," he says, and his voice is clear and friendly, bright. Nate's feet are moving him over there before he even knows what they're -- he's, doing.

He sits close, their thighs pressed together, and tells himself it's instinct against the unholy Jersey cold. Brendon pours coffee into two plastic cups and passes Nate one as the first kids begin to stream in, thrumming with excitement. Hoodwink's small, something like five hundred people, if that, which is kind of nice. Nate knows tomorrow is going to be an exercise in endurance, more than eight hours on his feet. "Thanks," he says, tipping his cup to brendon.

"Why do they hate each other, do you think?" Brendon asks after a while, and Nate blinks, because if their thighs hadn't been pressed together, he would have forgotten Brendon was there at all. "They could have really been something," he sounds a little sad, which Nate doesn't really understand.

"They can still be something, Bren," he says, and then blinks at the use of the nickname. "I mean, they're only the teensiest bit behind Cobra Academy in record sales."

Brendon elbows him in the side. "That's not the point. I mean, have you heard Midtown Arms?"

Nate looks at his hands. Of course he has, everyone fucking has. Midtown Arms' one and only release, Living Well, is the kind of album that sinks under your skin and into your brain and stays there. Rolling Stone named it six on their top fifty albums of all time. "Yeah," Nate says. "I've heard it. I don't know. It's not something Gabe just talks about, not even to Bill and they've been friends since before Midtown Arms."

Brendon shrugs, and leans back against the makeshift wall again. "You know, I'm supposed to hate you, have my defenses up, you know? But you just look like a nice kid that's doing merch for omg, omg, COBRA ACADEMY!!!!!!!! Elevendy one," he says, calmly, and Nate blinks, because what.

"You're supposed to hate me?" Nate echoes and Brendon nods, huffing out a laugh.

"You think you're the only one who got the enemies speech. I mean, Pete played it off like a joke, but he wasn't really joking, you know?"

Nate nods. Yeah, he knows really fucking well. "You don't like evil to me," Nate offers after a beat. "You look like the nice little weirdo doing merch for Fall Out Disco."

"I'll tell you a secret," Brendon says, leaning forward with a grin. "I've got a whole reserve of Red Bull like, hidden in my bunk. You can like, share some of it over the next couple of days if you want. It's two bucks a pop over at the drink kiosk, but like. From me you can get it for like. Free? You know? And I've done Bamboozle before. You look like a newb, and you're gonna need it."

Nate has to remind himself that kissing Brendon right then and there would probably set an awkward tone for the rest of the weekend. "Thanks," Nate murmurs back. He can see kids beginning to wander their way, fishing wallets out of back pockets and backpacks. "I've got a hidden reserve of gummy bears, if you want to made it a trade."

Brendon's eyes light up, they like, seriously light up, and it's only when someone coughs, like, right next to his ear does Nate realize that, right, he and Brendon aren't friends. He and Brendon aren't going to be friends. He and Brendon are the friends of absolutely crazy people who happen to hate each other.

"Young Nathanial," Gabe says, voice practically a hiss (like a cobra, his brain provides and Nate winces), and Nate nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Yeah!" Nate jerks to his feet, feeling like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Gabe's icognito, hiding behind sunglasses and a scarf, but Nate can still see the deep unhappiness written in what little of his face is visible. "Gabe. What?"

"Little children want to spend money on us," Gabe says and he's not looking at Nate, he's glaring at Brendon.

"Right. Sorry." Nate shoves his hands into his pockets and shifts back over to his table. "I guess I'll see you," he says to Brendon, cheeks burning. Brendon nods, and he doesn't seem phased by Gabe, but then again, Brendon knows Pete. Nate probably isn't as surprised as he should be.

**

"Jesus," Ryland whistles as they sit on the bus, Nate counting through the night's take. "We should play more festivals in the bitter cold. We'll make a killing selling hoodies."

Nate chuckles, snapping a ruuber band around a stack of twenties. "I felt kind of bad. I think some of them had no idea who we are, they were just cold."

"A hoodie's a hoodie," Bill says from the couch, sprawled out lazily, legs open. Gabe casually steps in between them, and Nate's skin rankles, even though it's not like this is new, it's not like they don't do this ALL THE FUCKING TIME OR ANYTHING.

Gabe's starting to lean down when Bill says, "Looks like Nate got a head start on his plan, too." Gabe winks at him and Nate feels his stomach dropping.

"Plan?" Vicky comes out from the bunks, having ditched her dress and tights for sweats and a thermal shirt. "What plan?" Nate ducks his head and busies himself counting money as she drops down next to him and curls up, head on his shoulder.

Gabe turns in the bracket of William's legs and sits down on his thigh, arms looped around his neck. "I charged young Nathaniel with infiltrating the enemy's camp."

Vicky's eyes widen. "The enemy camp?" she asks, voice icy.

Nate blinks.

He'd completely forgotten that she's the only one, out of all of them, who managed to stay friends with Pete. "So that kid I saw you talking to, that was your version of infiltration?" Her voice is hard and a little angry, and Nate winces, even though he didn't actually do anything wrong.

"Jesus, we were sitting next to each other for like six hours," Nate mumbles. "We were just talking."

Gabe's eyes narrow at that and the temperature in the room drops. Over in their corner, Sisky and Carden's conversation drops away and Ryland shifts out of the line of fire to lean against Alex's legs. "Just talking, right. Of course you were just talking. And the part where you were trying to crawl into his lap?"

Nate doesn't really get angry at his band. There's no point. They're all going to do what they do, and they're going to act how they act and nothing that he says will ever change that. That's fine. He doesn't judge.

The way they're looking at him now though, like he's the one that did something wrong? He can't stand it. He can't stand it one bit.

"I wasn't, okay." His voice is flat, and a few of them wince. He slides off the couch and back towards the bunks. Seriously? Fuck everybody.

**

Saturday is, if anything, colder.

Nate dresses appropriately, layering a long sleeved shirt over his tee and shrugging on two hoodies again. Maybe it's passive aggressive, but he doesn't wear any band merch and maybe he really doesn't give a shit. Ryland hands him coffee with a tight, apologetic smile that Nate can't return. Gabe doesn't look at him, makes a point of not looking at him in fact, and Bill just shrugs and follows.

"It's just Gabe being Gabe," Carden says, walking alongside Nate to their booth. The band's not playing again until Sunday night, so they're all planning on sneaking around to listen to different sets from side stage.

"Whatever," he mumbles. "It's fine."

And the thing is, it is fine. It's not like the Brendon kid meant anything to him or anything, and it's not like. It's not like anything.

"Hey, man," Brendon says when Nate climbs behind the table and starts in setting everything back up again. Nate grins at him tightly, but he doesn't say anything, reaching back and taking another sip from the spectacularly bad coffee he's drinking. "I get off shift at four," Brendon continues, like he doesn't notice that Nate's frosty disposition is more than from just the chill in the air. "Want to partake in some of my super secret stash?"

He's making a ridiculous face, contorting his features and stretching his lips, and Nate laughs, he can't help it. Fuck everyone, seriously.

"That could possibly be very cool," he says, voice even, and then, "I get off shift at four too, and then I'm- "

"Back at eight," Brendon finishes, grinning triumphantly. "Me too."

**

Nate's never worked Bamboozle, never actually been to Bamboozle, to be perfectly honest, and he's more than a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people that come pouring in throughout the day. If it were less busy, it would be prime people watching time, but he has a hard time keeping up with the number of kids at the booth as it is without stopping to gawk.

The band members, except Gabe, drop by periodically. Vicky brings him a hot dog for lunch and an hour later Ryland and Sisky swing by with a couple extra bottles of water.

"Want one?" Nate holds it out to Brendon, who's coping with a similar volume of kids and he beams, accepting the bottle with a grateful nod of his head as he hands a girl the third different tee shirt she's asked to try.

It's been like this most of the day, secret smiles and passing glances, giggles that he hasn't been able to control. Nate isn't really a giggly guy, not by nature, but it's nice. Brendon is nice, Bamboozle is nice, if he can forget about the shocking amount of scantily clad teenagers running around.

He hears a choking sound and, for a second, he fears for the worst. That's exactly how it sounds in his head too, oh no, this has to be for the worst, and when he turns and looks at Brendon, his face is bright pink. He's biting on his bottom lip to keep something from coming out, and upon closer inspection, it looks like laughter.

"What," he asks, when he's finished stuffing a twenty into the till, "Is so funny, William Miller?" and Brendon fucking like, beams at him, like that was the exact thing he wanted to hear.

"Did you see that girl over there?" There are a few people in Nate's booth, but they're not making "buying things" noises, so Nate is perfectly justified in shifting the few feet over and leaning across the divide to where Brendon's standing.

He points, discreetly, and Nate does see her. His stomach drops when he spots her and it's not because he knows the girl, it's nothing like that, it's. It's what she's wearing.

"Please tell me," he says evenly, "That she's not really wearing orange spandex leggings, magenta booty shorts and purple leg warmers," he says quietly, wincing as the sun catches on her ensemble. "Please tell me." Brendon's shoulders are shaking again, and his eyes look apologetic when he says, "I'm sorry, I can't."

**

A little bit before four, a guy with epics amount of curly, dark brown hair comes sauntering up and Brendon vaults over the table, throwing his arms around his neck. "Joe, Joseph Trohman, you are a saint among men." The guy, Joe, ruffles Brendon's hair with an easy smile and shrugs him off, skirting around the table to plop down on the folding chair.

"Have fun," Joe says. "Be back by eight or Pete will eat you alive."

Brendon nods and bats his eyelashes, says, "Yes, Mom," as he shifts over and leans against Nate's table, bracing himself on his elbows. "Are you ready for an afternoon of fun and exciting adventures in Bamboozle-land?"

Nate snorts out a laugh as Carden comes in from the back, mouth half full of overpriced hamburger with a beer in one hand. "Now I am." Nate peels a couple bills off the day's take and shoves them into his pocket, part of his pay for the tour. He doesn't look at Carden, even though he knows Mike's not the kind of guy to play the dramatic games Gabe does; he slides across the table and smiles at Brendon.

"Okay, let's go."

Brendon loops his arm in Nate's and they both both laugh, giggling at a joke that neither of them quite get.

**

"Where are we going?"

Brendon smiles and steers Nate away from the two main stages, to the back of the massive parking lot. They weave easily through the crowd, snickering in tandem at some of the more outlandish get ups and waving to stray musicians they recognize.

"No, seriously," Nate chuckles. "Where are we going?"

Brendon digs his elbow in Nate's side and lets out a dramatic sigh. "Where is your sense of adventure?"

"I live on a tour bus with Cobra Academy, that's enough adventure for anyone."

"Please," Brendon snorts. "I lived in a van with Fall Out Disco. For a year and half. A small van. I had to sleep in the back jammed between an amp and Ryan's guitar while we were hurtling down an icy Montana highway because we were late to a venue. That, my friend, is adventure."

Nate stares. "You are a little weird, Bren."

"Knew that." Brendon grins. "What else is new?"

They're standing at the end of a line. Nate cranes his neck and smiles, wide and bright and easy. "The ferris wheel? You're taking me on the ferris wheel?"

"It's all a part of my cunning plan to get you to sing Disney with me," Brendon nods. "I can show you the wooooooorld!"

He draws out the note, dropping his mouth in a perfect O and Nate doubles over he's laughing so hard.

**

The thing is, Gabe saved Nate's life.

It's pretty cut and dry. Nate was living in a car that wasn't even his, that he'd lifted for two hundred dollars from the girlfriend of a friend's brother. He's not a negative guy by nature, but he's fairly confident he would have died if Gabe hadn't found him, if Gabe hadn't said, "Dude, you look like you need your laundry done, while you're at it, can you do mine?" and then not only put a roof over Nate's head but three square meals a day, too.

Nate hates being pissed at Gabe, and it doesn't happen often -- hasn't really happened ever, not to this degree, not really, because Brendon's sitting there, grinning hugely and they're sitting on the very top of the ferris wheel, looking over the twinkling lights of the festival, and Nate can feel the music swirling all around him, and this is everything he's ever wanted, someone to feel it with, to share it with, and Nate wants to is kiss him, fuck Gabe and fuck the war.

Brendon turns to look at him, and his nose is pink. "I really hate Gabe Saporta," he says, apropos of nothing, and Nate blinks.

"What?"

"According to legend, Pete and Gabe were like. On the fast track, okay? They were going to make it big, it was going to happen, it's all happening," he murmurs, voice dropping low, and Nate shoots him a smile. "And then I don't know, one of them fucks up, or they both do, and suddenly oh wait, hey, they hate each other, these two guys who used to breathe for each other."

Nate says, mostly out of loyalty, "It might not be Gabe's fault," but his voice is quiet, and he's not quite sure he believes it.

Brendon shrugs, like whose fault it is doesn't really matter. "Whose fault it is it doesn't really matter, Nate. They both fucked up, and they keep fucking up and they're not really happy," he pauses, taking a breath. "I can't speak for Gabe, but Pete's not happy, and who the fuck knows if they'd be happier together, I don't know, but I really hate Gabe Saporta, because he hates Pete and Pete hates him, and I really want to kiss you right now but I shouldn't and I can't."

Nate blinks.

"You know," he says after a beat, "Gabe and Pete aren't here right now. It's just us."

**

It is a very bad idea, that much Nate knows for absolute certain.

Fighting with Gabe is always a momentary thing, a split second of discord in the grand scheme of their friendship and Nate knows they're both going to get over it and go back to loving each other more than is reasonable. And, either way, Nate loves the band, loves being with them and living with them and being a part of something bigger than he dreamed in Georgia.

It's a strange kind of loyalty thing; he picked a side back in the beginning, though, granted, he had no idea he was laying down claims when he did.

The thing is, the lights from the ferris wheel are gleaming off Brendon's skin in patches of bright color, blue and red and yellow and green, and Brendon's staring at Nate with something wistful and resigned in his eyes.

"We're just merch guys," Nate says. They're sitting close, touching from shoulder to knee, and Nate can feel the toe of Brendon's sneaker pressed into the side of his foot. "It's not actually a war, you know? We can't be executed for treason."

Brendon snorts out a little laugh and ducks his head. "It's more serious than a war, Nate, it's music."

"Well." Nate flounders and throws up his hands. "Fuck it, that's not fair. I like you."

Nate's only very rarely impulsive. He can't be, not with the band he's a part of. Gabe's the kind of guy who just goes and, not that it's really a bad thing, the rest of Cobra Academy will follow his lead. Nate stays behind and cleans up the worst of the mess; he remembers cell phones and keys and door cards, he keeps out so they can have fun and he doesn't resent that place, he never has.

He just wants to be impulsive sometimes too.

"I like you too," Brendon admits with a half smile. "I told myself I wasn't going to, but I do."

"Good." Nate inhales, holds his breath for the count of three, and exhales. "Please don't hit me, then."

He curls his hands around Brendon's jaw, sliding the tips of his fingers into Brendon's soft hair and swiping his thumbs down the column of his neck. Brendon's eyes go wide, but he doesn't pull away and Nate takes that as an invitation or, if nothing else, an unspoken yes.

Nate cocks his head to the side and kisses him, slow and sweet, hello and goodbye in the same breath.

**

They head back at 7:30, and they're not holding hands, they aren't, Brendon's just huddled against him for warmth (it's sad that this is actually true, even sadder still? That Nate's skin is thrumming because of it, a guitar solo on repeat reverberating against his skin), and when Mike sees them, he nods slowly.

Nate's kind of glad Mike's not the type of guy to comment on other people's love lives.

"We made five hundred dollars in three hours," he says, and he sounds more than a little shocked. Nate grins at him, and Mike grins back, it's a slow sort of smile, bright and easy as it creases the corners of his mouth, and fuck, does Nate love his band.

"Hey, little Urie," Joe says, and Nate almost jumps, because Brendon moves away from him, ruffling Joe's hair as he slides behind his table.

"How'd we do?" Nate hears him ask. Nate very definitely doesn't watch him out of the corner of his eye, doesn't watch him lean his head against Joe's shoulder, doesn't watch Joe's free arm wrap around his waist.

"So so. They," he gestures over to Nate's booth, and he can feel his cheeks flushing. "Did better. But, there is always tomorrow, and tomorrow, my son, is the day when everything happens."

Tomorrow is Sunday. Sunday is the last day of Bamboozle. Sunday is the day where Fall Out Disco heads back to Chicago to record they're new record and The Cobra Academy continues on tour.

They've already done their Chicago date, and Nate has New York to get back to, and a job to get back to and classes to get back to.

Shit.

**

Alex is hovering outside the bus when Nate comes wandering up, hands shoved into his pockets.

He and Carden worked the last couple hours together in companionable silence, sharing a beer and working out a system of Nate taking orders and money while Carden hunted through their rapidly depleting stock for the right sizes.

Nate's tired, wiped out really, from the hours on his feet and his brain is sore from thinking about Brendon and Gabe and Pete. It's exhausting, being the responsible one.

"Hey. Jesus." Alex pushes off the bus with worry written in his eyes. "Where the hell have you been? Look, just so you know -- "

The bus door bangs open and Gabe's standing at the top of the steps. "Get your fucking ass in here, Nate."

Alex flinches, circling his hands around Nate's wrist for a split second. "Just stay calm, okay? Please, Nate, don't make it worse."

Nate nods, smiling tight, and pulls his hand away. He's not afraid of Gabe, not really. After living in a fucking car, there's not much that he's genuinely afraid of anymore and, having seen Gabe naked, drunk, and streaking across someone's back yard with a feather boa wrapped around his neck, Gabe isn't all that terrifying any more.

It's what Gabe can take away that scares him.

Nate climbs the steps and, just like he thought, the bus is empty, even of William. It could be coincidence, could just be that everyone went to hang out on other buses with other bands, seeing the people they grew up with and knew from old projects and places, but Nate doubts that.

Gabe and William, at least, seem to be permanently attached by hands, mouths, or dicks and Gabe has barely tamped down anger snapping out from the taunt lines of his body.

"You do realize," he says slowly, "I was fucking around with that infiltration bullshit. I really just wanted you to stay the fuck away from Pete Wentz and his fucking crew."

Nate shrugs. "He's just a kid, Gabe, a kid working merch for the band, just like i work merch for you. It's not like he's working counter to your interests with the sole interest of promoting fucking Pete Wentz." He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. "Come on, Gabe, Midtown Arms was a long fucking time ago. Let it go. God."

Gabe turns and snaps, "Fuck you, Nate, you weren't there, so you don't know. I don't ask a whole hell of a lot from you, just to stay the fuck away from them."

Nate balls his hands into fists.

"No," he says, voice flat. "No."

"What?" Gabe pushes off his hat and flings it across the room. "What the hell, Nate."

"No, it's bullshit." Nate shakes his head jams his fists deep into his pockets. "I'm your friend, Gabe, not your servant or your slave and, sorry, but you're not allowed to dictate who I fucking talk to."

Nate turns and runs, clattering down the steps and spilling into the cold night.

**

Nate's not stupid. He knows exactly who Pete Wentz is.

It's just weird seeing him up close. He looks older than Nate had imagined, lines around his eyes blurred by magazine covers, the ink on his arms faded some.

"Hey," he says, and his voice sounds different than Nate would have expected too.

"Hi," Nate says, aware that it's weird that Gabe hates Pete and Pete hates Gabe and yet here Pete is standing in front of Gabe's bus, hands in his pockets. "What," he says, and then he stops himself, because this is Pete Wentz, and maybe talking to Brendon doesn't cross all the lines, but talking to Pete definitely does. "What are you doing here?" Pete's staring at him with dark eyes and red, bitten lips, and Nate thinks he looks a little lost, haunted in a way that's never really present on stage.

"You're that kid," he says, waving his hand around. "The one that is making Brendon smile like a moron."

Nate bites his lip and really, really hopes that he's the kid that's making Brendon smile like a moron. "I hope so," he says, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his hoodie. "He's uh. He's a good guy, Brendon."

He sounds like an idiot, but he really doesn't care. This is Pete Wentz he's talking to, and he's already fucked enough, but he'll be fucked even worse if Gabe looks out the bus.

"Yeah," Pete says, voice quiet, and then, after a beat, and the awkward clearing of his throat. "How. How is he?"

**

More than once, Nate has looked around at his life and wondered how he got there, doing the things he does with the people he knows.

Sitting cross legged on a battered folding table with a cool beer held loosely in his hand, next to Pete Wentz, it hits Nate harder than it has in a long time. Pete has his head tipped back to the sky, staring up at the spread of faintly glowing stars. He's already drained his beer and he's tapping the battle against his knee.

"So," Nate says, worrying at his lower lip.

Pete rolls his head to the side and smiles, faint and bitter and a little bit broken. "So. I really should have known playing Bamboozle was a bad idea."

"How do you figure?"

"Six degrees of separation can be a bitch," Pete says. "Gabe and I grew up around a lot of the same people and we made our best connections and inroads to the industry and shit with Midtown Arms. It's never comfortable to see who picked me and who picked him."

Nate looks down at his hands. "Some didn't pick. Vicky." he waves his hand and Pete chuckles softly, but even Nate can see the difference between cutting off all contact and still picking. "All right, yeah, that sucks."

"So." Pete chucks his bottle away in the night. It's plastic, not glass, and it bounces on the asphalt and rolls beneath another band's bus. "This is so fucking douchey of me and I know that, but if you've been living with Gabe and William you already know what a dick I am. So, you know, fuck it. How is he?"

Pete's face is tight, smile pasted on, and neither are enough to hide the glassy look in his eyes. Nate knows about lines, crossing them and toeing them and he's tired of it. "He's okay, I guess. He, um, he hates you a lot." Nate pulls a face and Pete flinches, but he won't lie. "He and William ... they, you know, have a thing."

"A thing," Pete echoes with a derisive snort. "Yeah, I know about the thing."

Nate cocks his head to the side, gears beginning to click in his mind, the look on Pete's face and the look on Gabe's, the videos of Midtown Arms performing, the pair of them pressed close together through their instruments and, Jesus fuck, it's too fucking perfect.

"Christ," Nate exhales and Pete looks at him eyebrows raised. "What?"

Nate would laugh, if it were anything close to funny. "You two had a thing. That's what happened." Pete does him the courtesy of not flinching.

"Everybody has a thing on tour, kid," he says, and he rubs at his temples, looking so much older than he must be. Nate rolls his eyes, and wonders just how much he's fucked up his life. It'd be a long hitchhike back to Georgia from here, that's for sure. "Just don't confuse fucking with love," he busts through Nate's internal reverie about gas prices and how much it would cost to take a taxi back to Gabe's to grab all the stuff he didn't take with him on tour. "And don't confuse love with anything. It's a fucking myth."

"He's my best friend," Nate says, and it isn't one of those moments where he's just realizing it for the first time. "He's my best friend and he hates me right now, and I'm not too sure he's wrong, because I really fucked up," this, more than anything, he's realizing is true.

"You just befriended my merch boy, kid, it's not like you yanked his heart out or anything," Pete says, and he sounds like he means it, voice rough and a little sleep callous.

Nate's heart is in his throat, and he can feel the beat of it everywhere. "I don't know what happened," he says slowly, evenly, like he's talking to a small child, and maybe he is. "And I wouldn't tell you how to fix it, maybe you can't. But I can."

Pete blinks over at him, and Nate wants to do something corny and romantic, giving a message to Brendon or something, but he doesn't.

"I'll see you, kid," Pete says, Pete fucking Wentz, but Nate doesn't turn around and he doesn't stop. "Probably not," he says, but it's low, under his breath, and he doubts that Pete hears him, that Pete even cares.

**

Nate sneaks onto the bus, quiet as he can.

Carden and Alex are dozing on the couch, the tail end of Superbad playing on the TV. He passed Vicky sitting with a couple of friends and a bottle of wine and he knows Ryland and Butcher were both making noise about turning in early so they'd be rested for tomorrow.

He pauses between the bunks; he has to talk to Gabe, but hell if he's going to get an eyeful of him and William fucking to do it. Fortunately, there's a distinct lack of moaning and groaning, or even the quite rustle of sheet and skin, so Nate eases down to Gabe's bunk.

"Gabe," he murmurs, twitching back the curtain a few inches.

"Jesus." Gabe's on his back, William curled across his chest, fast asleep, like some overgrown cat. "Nate, what?"

"Repeat after me," Nate says quietly, meeting Gabe's eyes. He's not talented when it comes to words, he thinks in four four time and not lyrics, but it's the best he knows how to do. "Whatever happened between Pete and I has nothing to do with anyone but Pete and I."

Gabe stares for a long moment, hand curled protectively around William's neck. "Whatever happened between Pete and me," he says, slowly and deliberately, "has nothing to do with anyone but Pete and me."

"The people around Pete aren't Pete."

"Nate," Gabe begins and Nate jerks his head in a sharp shake. "Fuck. The people around Pete aren't Pete."

"Brendon," Nate says, savoring the name in a way that makes no logical sense after only two days, "Is not a minion of the devil. He's a funny, awesome, talented, smart kid."

Gabe rolls his eyes, lips quirking at the edges in the faintest hint of a smile. "Brendon isn't a minion of Lucifer, just of Pete. And Nate has a big ass motherfucker of a crush on him."

"I'm not pissed at Nate," Nate mumbles, ducking his head a few inches.

"Hey." Gabe shifts, extracting an arm from beneath William to ruffle Nate's hair. "I could never be pissed at you, kid."

Nate smiles.

**

The Cobra Academy is on at one, and Fall Out Disco starts at 1:15 on the complete other side of the parking lot, a strange quirk of fate that leaves Nate more than slightly confused and completely convinced that either one or both of them had pissed off the event coordinator. The feud between them hasn't exactly been quiet, and while their styles of music are completely different, they fall under the same genre, they have the same fans, and a rift like this is a concert promoter's nightmare.

Brendon's already at his booth when Nate shows up with two cups steaming cups of coffee and a tentative smile. Brendon smiles back and it's more than tentative, which sends warm sparks to the safe place in his chest.

"Morning," Brendon says, sunglasses perched on his nose as he looks out across the parking lot. It's only been three days, but he's starting to become conditioned to this place and Nate knows with utmost certainty he'll be missing the familiarity of it come tomorrow.

"Hey," Nate mumbles back, hating that he's blushing. It's barely 9 AM and he has to unpack the last of their gear, ready to be purchased by the teaming masses.

There's a signing later on too, he's pretty sure it's at the same time as the Fall Out Disco signing at five, and he's really glad he'll be off shift then.

They'll be leaving as soon after that, and while Nate never has that rush, hurry, hurry sensation when they're out on tour, he's never wanted to go home less.

He has a pretty good feeling that Brendon's the reason, and he really wouldn't mind spending the next couple months working a festival like this, even with the grunt work and the rivalry, so long as he gets Brendon every morning.

"I sincerely hope one of those is for me," Brendon says, and Nate flushes again, nodding, and handing it over. He sets his own in the table so quickly so that half the dark liquid escapes the confines of its styrofoam container and splatters against the dark pavement. "Oops," Brendon says around a mouthful of his own coffee, and Nate flips him off, just because he can.

They work in fairly companionable silence after that, and by eleven, they're sitting behind their respective tables, enjoying the way the sun is actually out for once, respecting the quiet they won't get much more of.

"So, you know what I was thinking?" Brendon asks at ten 'til the insanity's set to begin. If he looks hard enough, Nate's pretty sure he can see the shadows of people already camped out at the front of the gates.

"What were you thinking," he asks, smile in his voice, realizing that his lips are curving up of their own volition and he doesn't want to do anything to stop them.

"We," Brendon says, pausing deliberately. "Haven't played the cell phone game." Nate snorts, and then covers it with a cough, nodding sagely.

"The cell phone game," he responds, looking straight ahead, trying to school his features into something even vaguely resembling solemnity. He's failing fairly miserably, to be perfectly honest. "A fine and respected tradition."

"You know it," Brendon's voice is muffled, but then a second later, an object more-than-slightly resembling a Sidekick lands on the table, skittering across the rows of neatly folded tee shirts and clattering to the ground. "If you could um, grab that and put your number in it, so I can call you tonight when I'm alone in my bunk that would be awesome."

"How'll I know it's you?" Nate asks, shifting onto his knees so that he can reach for the phone, buzzing happily in the dirt. He's pretty sure it's not broken or dirty, but he wipes it against the leg of his jeans just in case. When he's sitting up again, he can't help the smile at the look Brendon's shooting him, rolling eyes and all.

"The whole point of the cell phone game, Nate," he says, reaching an arm across the divide. "Is to switch cell phones." Nate grins, but doesn't say anything, and Brendon's arm starts to shift and move and shake the longer he has it extended. "C'mon," Brendon's whining almost, but he's also got his lip caught up beneath his teeth, and god, he's cute.

Nate shifts his phone out of his pocket, but instead of giving it to Brendon, he grasps onto his hand instead, tugging him up to his feet as he stands on his own and pulling him closer.

"Hi," he whispers when Brendon's close enough, when they barely have a minute left before the masses are let inside.

"Such a fucking tease," Brendon mutters, but he leans down and fits their mouths together anyway.


End file.
